Meet Me at Twilight and in Darkness We'll Wander
by DracoMalfoy456
Summary: "But life wasn't fair, Bilbo was realizing. As he stared into those blue, blue eyes, Bilbo felt something inside him break. Something he knew he would never get back. Something so important, something he hadn't even realized was whole until this very moment. Life wasn't fair."


Because I've been feeling unwell and kind of depressed over the past few days, I decided to try and write a story following Bilbo after the death of Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli, even though it's probably been done millions of times. It starts off kind of melancholy, but it ends happily. I guess.

Tell me what you think, if you don't mind. Enjoy.

(Oh! And the poem at the beginning and the end are mine. I wrote them, as well as came up with the title. I own nothing else, though.)

* * *

_Meet me at Twilight and in darkness we'll wander  
__Away from the hurt and the pain  
__Always remember that darkness will wither  
__And light will prevail once again_.

He never thought it would end like this.

As he cradled Thorin's head, staring into those blue eyes, once so full of life and passion, now dull and dead... He never thought this was how it would end. Not like this. Not when Thorin was so close to his prize. It wasn't supposed to end like this.

It wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. Thorin deserved to be the king, bright and brilliant. He deserved to reclaim his long lost kingdom, to be the king Bilbo knew he was. He did not deserve to die, fallen from the blade of a vile Orc. He did not deserve to die so close, so close to everything he had ever wanted. It wasn't fair.

But life wasn't fair, Bilbo was realizing. As he stared into those blue, blue eyes, Bilbo felt something inside him break. Something he knew he would never get back. Something so important, something he hadn't even realized was whole until this very moment. Life wasn't fair.

He stayed there for minutes, just staring at the Dwarf in his arms before pulling away. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay there, forever, to always be with this brave, ridiculous martyr. But it wouldn't work like that. Bilbo couldn't give up, Bilbo wasn't a quitter. Besides, Thorin wouldn't want him to give up. And so Bilbo would keep moving. Because what other option did he have?

The worst part, Bilbo had to admit, was remembering the events that had happened before Thorin's... Death. While watching his leader fall and succumb to death, everything else had faded away. But as he dragged himself away, it all came rushing back. Fíli falling, Kíli running off to fight the orcs... Part of him wanted to believe that Kíli was fine, that he was still alive, but a bigger part of him just couldn't. Couldn't hope. He had seen the look in Kíli's eyes. Kíli would fight until he was dead, he would run himself into the ground. And even if he had survived, he would never be the Dwarf he was. He would lose that innocence that made him Kíli, and Bilbo would mourn that, if nothing else.

He then sat down on the stone steps of that cursed tower, and felt tears escape his eyes. They fell, harsh and fast, and he couldn't find it in himself to stop. He just sobbed and sobbed, mourning everything. His friends, his leader, even himself. He mourned it all, and once the tears ran out, he sat still, silently broken.

Later, when Gandalf sat down beside him, he tried to smile. He tried to be happy, tried to be who he had once been. But he couldn't. He couldn't manage even a small, minuscule smile. How could anyone smile after their heart had been devoured by the cruelty that was life? And so he sat with Gandalf, saying nothing, watching the Dwarves react to their leader's death. He felt too empty to feel anything at the sight.

After the battle had officially ended, he found out that he had been correct to not hope, that Kíli had fallen by the hands of Azog's spawn, Bolg. He felt nothing.

The other Dwarves were quiet. Bilbo had never seen them so quiet, so somber. He saw many of them with red eyes, many of them disheveled and broken. He understood. But it was still so surreal. Dwarves weren't meant to be so quiet. They were supposed to be loud, exuberant; happy that they had won their long lost mountain. The Dwarves weren't meant to be so quiet.

It was the next day that the fires blazed, burning the dead. Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli, however, were spared. They would get a royal funeral, returning to the stone where they would spend the rest of eternity. Bilbo was glad. They didn't deserve to burn in flames. It would just be cruel. To burn in fire so close to a mountain lost in fire.

On the day of the funerals, Bilbo watched with sightless eyes, his heart leaden in his chest. He saw as they placed the Arkenstone, that thrice damned, accursed stone upon His breast. He saw as they covered the tomb, placing Orcrist on the top. He saw as they sang their laments while sealing the stone around that brave, reckless Dwarf. He saw, and yet he didn't see, his body there but his mind a million miles away. He didn't even cry, as he knew some of the other Dwarves were doing. His heart was too heavy, as cold and smooth as the tomb they laid Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli inside of. He was too numb. He could feel nothing inside.

He didn't linger long. He couldn't bear staying in or near this mountain, not after everything. Not when it felt like he was being stabbed every time he remembered that Thorin would never be able to rebuild his homeland. That he came so close only to fall short. That the darkness and pain would never be able to be lifted from his burdened shoulders.

He left without a word to anyone but Balin, yet they all still managed to come to bid him farewell. It hurt him immensely to see them all standing there, missing three important figures, but he put on a brave face. He'd have to do that a lot, in the years to come. He tried to smile and bid them farewell, welcoming them to visit his home whenever they wished, knowing he'd never have the heart to return to this mountain. Then he left, setting out with Gandalf, back to a life that no longer fit him. Back to a life without...

When he returned home, he found that everything he had ever known was gone. His house had been ransacked and his possessions stolen. He felt almost relieved, in a strange way. His house now reflected how he felt inside. It would have felt wrong, so terribly wrong, had he returned and everything was the same. Because everything wasn't the same. /He/ wasn't the same. Gandalf had been right.

He stood in his living room for a long time after returning, doing nothing but staring at the walls, lost in memories and grief. When he finally moved, night had fallen and shadows filled the rooms. He didn't bother to get a light.

The first thing he did upon waking the next morning was find a chest. Anything that reminded him of his time on the road was put inside that chest and was locked away. He couldn't bear to see any of it. It hurt too much.

The next few weeks he spent getting his possessions back. Part of him didn't want them, wanted to be rid of everything that reminded him of before, but logically he knew he'd need these things. He needed to live, to be strong, and to do that he needed things to return to normal. He needed to be reminded of who he was. Maybe then it wouldn't hurt so badly. Maybe then he could close his eyes and not see His face, hear His voice as it cherished his name.

The neighbors didn't like him much now. He couldn't tell if it was because of the fact he had taken a lot of his possessions back from them, or if it was because of the fact he had left on an adventure. Either way, they mostly stayed out of his way. There were no pleasant 'hello's or polite 'how do you do's. There were just mistrustful looks and whispered comments at his back whenever he passed by. He didn't mind. He didn't know if he could handle pleasantries at the moment.

Bilbo would still spend hours just sitting and staring at walls, unable to find the will to move. He'd sit, and try so hard not to feel. To not remember. He couldn't bear remembering, and yet never wanted to forget. It terrified him to think of what would happen if he ever did.

He didn't cry. Not once, not since that moment he had realized that Thorin had gone. Part of him wanted to cry, but he just... Couldn't. It hurt too much, the pain was too deep. It went beyond tears, beyond screaming himself hoarse, beyond yelling at the unfairness of life. It was a pain Bilbo had never experienced before, a pain so deep it spread out through his veins, leaving bitter ice behind. So deep he could feel nothing but pain, some days, yet had no way to alleviate that pain. By the end of a month, he wanted to carve his heart out with his sword. At least during the journey home he had had something to focus on that wasn't pain. Now, pain was his only companion.

He didn't smile either. He never smiled, not anymore. He couldn't bear to even try. What did he have to smile for, anyway? Nothing happened in his life, there was nothing good anymore. He just existed, going through the motions of life.

Time did not heal all wounds, Bilbo began to realize as the days passed and the pain stayed. Months turned into a year and still that dull throb followed him. Still that ice lingered in his heart. The day that marked one year since that terrible, horrible day was spent in his chair in front of the fire, staring blankly at the dancing flames. He could still remember the shape of Thorin's face, the timbre of his voice, the brilliant blue of his troubled eyes. He could remember everything and it killed him inside. But he would be damned if he didn't remember, on this day especially.

He could also remember Fíli and Kíli. Their mischievous smiles, their carefree laughs. His heart ached as he remembered their faces, so young, so innocent. They didn't deserve death. Of all of them, they deserved death least.

When he went to bed that night he dreamt of them all. Dreamt of a life where they had lived, where Erebor was theirs, where they were happy. He dreamt of Thorin, smiling and laughing. He dreamt of Fíli and Kíli running joyously in the halls, ignoring calls from their Uncle to slow down before they hurt themselves. He dreamt of himself, in a life that wasn't half lived, wasn't so broken and dead. He dreamt of so many things. He always did.

As the anniversary passed, he began trying to make things better. He realized the day after that this was not what Thorin would have wanted for him. That Thorin would have wanted him to be happy. After realizing that, he began to make an effort to actually live, not merely exist. It hurt, hurt to even try to live after everything. But still he tried, he tried so hard.

Things did get better, after that, if only slightly. He spent more time outdoors, would try and greet his neighbors, even if they still seemed wary of him. He did his best to live. But at night, the pain would creep in. At night, he would remember. At night, he would be destroyed all over again.

About a year after he returned home, a year and a half since the funerals, he finally decided to go through the treasure he had brought back from Erebor. For the longest time, he couldn't bear the thought of it. It hurt too much. But he decided that it had been long enough, and began sorting through it all.

He cried, for the first time in over a year, when he came across the acorn. It had been at the bottom of the chest, sitting innocently where he had placed it in his anguish the night he had returned home. With shaking hands, he had picked it up, and felt tears finally spilling out from his eyes. He covered his mouth to stop the sobs, but still they came. He spent hours that way, sitting on the floor, crying his eyes out over that silly little acorn, lost in memories. He could finally feel it all, everything that he had been holding back. He didn't know what it was about this acorn, but it changed things.

Once the tears ceased, Bilbo stood on shaky legs and went outside. He took the trowel he kept by the door and dug a hole, right beside his house. He placed the acorn in the hole, so gently, making certain that it was buried evenly.

He would spend every day from that day onwards caring for his seedling. He watered it, fed it, protected it. He watched as it grew and felt something inside him simultaneously break and mend. _'Plant your trees, watch them grow.'_ He smiled bitterly.

~XoxoxoxoxoxoX~

Years passed. The world around him stayed the same. Every day he would wake, eat breakfast, tend to his young oak tree, read his books; and he would remember. Every single day he would remember. The pain had finally ceased enough that he could now think on the good times he had spent with Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli without it feeling like a knife was being jabbed into his heart. He could remember without wanting to die.

It had been five years since he had joined the Dwarves in a journey across Middle Earth when he got a knock on his door. He had been sitting in front of the fire, drinking a hot cup of tea as he reminisced about his days on the road. The knock had startled him, as he never got visitors anymore. When he opened the door, he was beyond shocked to see the face of Balin standing there, smiling a small smile.

They spent the next week catching up. Balin told Bilbo everything that went on in Erebor after he had left. Apparently Dain, Thorin's cousin from the Iron Hills, had become king and had begun the arduous task of restoring Erebor to her former glory. And while there was still a lot to be done, Erebor was indeed beginning to grow. Hundreds of Dwarves had returned to their home, helping to clear the years of waste and wear away from those once shining halls.

The company was doing well. According to Balin, a few had even gotten jobs in the palace itself. Dwalin was captain of the guard, Ori was the palace scribe, and Bombur was the palace chef. Nori had become a miner, while Dori worked as an entrepreneur, helping to create jobs for the Dwarves that arrived by the dozens. Bofur and Bifur had opened up a toy shop. Óin had his own healer's shop in the heart of the city and Glóin mostly stayed at home, spending time with his family and raising his son. Balin, himself, had been the advisor to the king, before he retired several months previously.

Bilbo had listened intently to Balin's stories. He drank it all in, reveling in the news about his old friends. He could admit to himself now that he missed them, all of them, greatly. He longed to see them all again, but knew he'd never make the trip. That no matter how good things got, he'd never be ready to go back.

When Balin left, Bilbo felt happier than he had in years. Seeing his old friend had hurt, but it was a good hurt. For the first time since he had returned home, he felt almost whole. Not completely, but whole enough.

Over the next several decades, he would get many visits from Balin. The old Dwarf would pop in from time to time and they would spend hours talking about life. Bilbo could never tell much about himself, as he lived a purposely boring life, but he always loved listening to Balin's tales.

Many years passed since that first visit from Balin. Bilbo got older, his tree grew bigger. His heart, though it still ached, had healed to the best of its ability. He still had dreams, sometimes, of Thorin and his reckless nephews, but they inspired less longing inside of him than they once had.

It was when he was just over eighty, thirty years from the day he returned home, that he got the news of the birth of his young cousin, Frodo Baggins. He had always been rather partial to Drogo and his wife Primula, as they were the only ones who spoke with him after he had returned home, and the news of their son had thrilled his old, worn heart. He would spend hours with the child, doting on him as he grew from infancy into his childhood years.

When he got the news of Drogo and Primula's death, he felt his heart break, though only slightly. Not like how it had broken, all those years ago, though it still hurt. They were good Hobbits, taken before their time, leaving a young son behind.

He went to see his cousin, who called him Uncle by now, and nearly wept at the broken hearted and fragile look in the boy he loved like a nephew's eyes. He did not hesitate to take the boy into his home, to raise him as well as he could.

It took him a long while to get his nephew to let go of his grief, but he refused to give up. When Frodo would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming for his parents, Bilbo would be there to dry his tears. When Frodo would spend the day lying in bed, curled in a ball and staring blankly at the walls, Bilbo would leave him be and let him work through the pain by himself, bringing him food and water whenever he thought it necessary. He knew what the boy was going through, and was determined to simply be there for him, if he was needed. Eventually the grief faded and Frodo became the vivacious little boy he had been before, even if his eyes were a touch sadder.

Bilbo hadn't known until he had begun raising Frodo just how empty his home had become. Now, with his nephew's presence, it felt like a home again. Suddenly, he didn't feel as broken as he once had. Suddenly, he felt like he was living again.

The next several years were the best that he could remember. His nephew brought new life into his old bones, making all the pain he once felt fade away. He still missed Thorin with all his heart, could still remember his face and voice with vivid clarity, but it no longer hurt. Not anymore.

He began talking to his tree, though. It had grown from the little acorn into a tall oak, and everyday he would sit under it as he watched his nephew play in the fields. He would talk to it and tell it everything he felt inside. He would smile and recall some silly thing that Frodo had done. He would laugh, and pretend he could hear it laughing along with him, a deep and melodious laugh that was as pure as the wind, though rarely given. Frodo never understood why he spoke to his tree, but Bilbo would just smile and not say. He didn't know how to put it into words.

Shortly after his one hundred and ninth birthday, he decided that he would leave Bag End. He was old, older than most Hobbits ever grew to be, and he was so very tired. He didn't know why he had lived so long, but he did find a cruel irony in it. For him to live unnaturally long, while his friends had fallen long before their time.

It was on his one hundred and eleventh birthday that he managed to finally make his escape. He had had a grand party, the entirety of Hobbiton showing up. After all these years, no one living still remembered Bilbo's adventure, and those that did weren't important anymore. He was a respectable Hobbit once again, even more so after he had graciously taken his nephew in. Bilbo didn't really care, but he supposed it was nice to be held in high regard. It was during his big speech that he left. He had slipped away, using his old ring to trick his neighbors. He returned home and took all his stuff, ready to leave The Shire for good.

He left his ring behind, though. It was difficult, far more difficult than he had thought it would be. To be honest, he hadn't really consciously thought about the ring in years. It had just always been there, with him. Leaving it, though... But it was for the best, if Gandalf had wanted him to leave it.

When he learned of what the ring was and what he had left his nephew to deal with, he was horrified. To think, his precious nephew, the ring bearer of the most powerful and evil ring in Middle Earth. If he could take that burden from Frodo, he'd have done it in a heartbeat, but he was far too old now. And so he watched as his nephew left Rivendell, taking Samwise, Merry, and Pippin along with him. Yes, they also had Legolas, the son of the Elvenking, and Gimli, son of his dear friend Glóin, not to mention Gandalf and those two men, but still. It hurt him to watch them leave, knowing he might never see them again. Knowing that even if he were to see them again, they would not be the same Hobbits he had seen grow up.

The year passed and Bilbo grew older and older. Soon he was barely able to walk by himself. He spent his days half-mad, remembering his youth and trapped in his memories. When he got news that Frodo had won the war, he could barely even remember what war he was supposed to have won.

The next four years passed similarly, with his mind deteriorating fast. But he still never forgot Thorin. Even as everything else faded, even his memories, he still could remember Thorin's face. He could still remember his eyes as they smiled. That was all he really needed.

One day, Frodo had come to visit and told him they were going on a trip. When he asked where, Frodo said that they were going to the harbor, that the Elves had afforded him a special honor. Bilbo didn't quite understand what he meant, but he knew it was something special and so he went with his nephew.

Together they arrived at the harbor and he saw the splendor of the Elven ships, and suddenly he knew. The fog in his mind had been lifted and he knew where those boats would take him. He almost smiled at the thought. Finally, he would be able to rest.

He went to sleep that night, below deck on the small ship. When he awoke, he had no idea where he was. It was dark, and he was lying atop something soft yet scratchy. He carefully lifted his head and marveled at the fact that he felt no pain or fatigue. He stood up, still blind, and remembered everything. Not just his journey on the Elven boat, but everything that he had forgotten in his old age. This must be the afterlife, then.

He heard rustling behind him and turned, not expecting to see anything but darkness. But he was wrong, and as he watched he felt all the air escape his lungs.

Standing there, just as magnificent as he remembered, was Thorin Oakenshield. He was dressed in his furs and his standard blue cloak. His hair was pitch black, no hint of silver to be seen, and his beard was long and braided. Bilbo didn't know what to say. He just stared in wonder.

"Welcome, Bilbo." He heard Thorin utter, and suddenly his stupor was over. With tears in his eyes, he darted forward with agility he hadn't had in years and embraced his long lost companion. It had been so long.

Thorin felt the same as he did all those years ago. He was hard and strong and just perfect. Bilbo could feel Thorin's arms circle around him and finally felt at peace. He could spend the rest of eternity here, in Thorin's arms, and never grow tired or bored.

"I missed you. For so long, I missed you." Bilbo breathed against Thorin's neck in wonder. He felt Thorin tighten his hold.

"I know. I'm sorry." Thorin murmured back, lifting his hand to tangle into Bilbo's curls.

Eons later Bilbo pulled back and looked into Thorin's eyes, just as blue as he remembered, though they now are missing that haunted, dark look they once held, replaced instead with a look of tenderness and caring. Bilbo smiled softly at Thorin, and Thorin smiled softly back. In the distance Bilbo could hear the shouts of three familiar voices, two that he had almost forgotten and one he knew almost as well as his own, and knew that he would be happy here. Knew that everything he had went through in life was worth it, if he could be here in the arms of the Dwarf he loved, with Fíli, Kíli, and Frodo nearby. The darkness had fallen, and light was breaking in. Everything would be okay.

_Now as the sun rises, east in the sky  
The new day is dawning and old fears subside  
The woes of yesterday fade from our mind  
And now we shall wander, forever in light._


End file.
